The girl who has caused my daughter, my family, so much distress.
The dead girl is Amber Walsh.
Half an hour later I’m sitting on the muddy path at the edge of the nature reserve. I was guided here by the first police officer to arrive after Robert called 999. He asked me a few questions – the red light from his bodycam making me feel nervous, even though his voice was calm and professional – then told me that a detective would arrive soon, and he needed me to wait. I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, given to me by one of the paramedics, and Annie is sitting by my side. But I’m still shaking like an overfilled washing machine. I want to go home and pretend none of this has happened. Eat breakfast with my family and binge-watch Ted Lasso, wrapped in a duvet. That’s why I turned down Robert’s offer to call Matt. I might not be able to leave, but at least I can keep my family in blissful ignorance for a while longer.
If I could force myself to look down towards the village, the horrors of my discovery would be out of view. But I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from the scene. It’s busy now. A tent has been erected around the body, its edges crinkling over foliage, the bluebells long since trampled by heavy boots. The paramedics have left, but I can count six police or forensic officers combing the scene, the rustle of their protective clothing perceptible even from this distance.
‘Poor girl,’ Annie says in a low voice. ‘I wonder who it is. She was tiny, wasn’t she? A child even. God, when I thought it was Milla, how Felix would take that news, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’
I want Annie to stop talking about my daughter. The detective will be along soon to talk to me, and I don’t want Annie mentioning how Milla was missing for hours, on the same night that Amber was killed.
Not that the two incidents are connected, of course.
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, whoever the victim is,’ I whisper, then hope my comment doesn’t sound judgmental. The last thing I want is to offend Annie, especially now.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice filters through. I look up at a man about my age with a large forehead and penetrating blue eyes. He’s wearing protective overalls and has a scrunched-up facemask in his hand. ‘Ms Salter? I’m DI Finnemore, from the Thames Valley Major Crime Unit. My colleague told me that you were the unfortunate person who found the victim. How are you doing?’
I was expecting questions, not kindness, and my resolve instantly starts to slip. But I want to get this over with as quickly as possible, and that means staying strong. So I push up onto my feet, ride the weakness in my legs, and face the detective. ‘Looking forward to going home.’
He nods. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’ Then he looks at me expectantly. I know this is a ploy to get me talking, but I’ve got nothing to hide, so I repeat what I told the uniformed officer. Through it all, Annie stands next to me, her hand resting on my back.
‘Thank you,’ he says when I fall silent. ‘And do you know the victim, by any chance?’
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I stare at the detective, but his face blurs. Do I know Amber? We’ve never met. All the conversations I’ve had with her – the tolerance at first, then the pleas, and finally the furious threats – have been in my head, not in person. I only recognised her at all because Lucy took a clandestine photo of her once. I take a breath, swallow. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who she is.’
The look in his ice-cold eyes sends a shiver down my spine. But is that wrong? Is it my own lie that has caused this sense of foreboding? He’s turning to Annie, asking her the same question, but his voice sounds muffled now, like I’ve created a new distance between us. My role within Children’s Services is around early intervention, so direct contact with the police is rare. But I attend monthly Multi Agency Safeguarding Hub meetings alongside specialist police officers, and I have always felt that we’re part of the same team. Even when Matt was charged with a crime he didn’t commit, I blamed the boy, and the fake witness, not the detectives involved.
But what about now? By denying I know who the victim is, have I broken that trust? Crossed a line?
‘I didn’t recognise her either, I’m afraid,’ Annie says. ‘Not that I looked. Well, once I realised it wasn’t Milla.’
I jerk my head towards Annie, then back to the detective. A new level of panic hits me.
‘Milla?’ he asks. He says it nonchalantly, but his nose lifts a few millimetres, like a gun dog picking up a scent.
‘Just a misunderstanding,’ I blurt out. But I need to rein it in, for Milla’s sake. I force a smile. ‘Milla’s my daughter,’ I explain in a more measured voice. ‘But she’s at home, in bed. She’s 18 so, you know.’
‘Sleeps until lunchtime,’ he offers. ‘Yes, I’ve got a couple of those myself.’ He rolls his eyes in solidarity, and I hope it’s enough to distract him. But the scent is clearly too strong. ‘And sorry if I’m missing something,’ he continues, turning back to Annie. ‘But why would you initially think the victim was Ms Salter’s daughter?’
My friend hesitates before answering, and I can sense her connecting the same dots that I’d linked much earlier, and even without knowing who the victim is. I’m grateful for it – Annie’s instinct to protect Milla – but also horrified that she feels the need. ‘I don’t know really,’ she finally says. ‘Panic, seeing Rachel, making some illogical association. But it was only for a moment.’
‘Okay, I see, that can happen,’ the detective says nodding. I hope he can’t read the relief on my face as he turns back to me. ‘Thank you for explaining everything,’ he continues. ‘We will need to formalise that into a statement for you to sign. Is that okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I’ve read plenty of police statements over the years, but having my own stored on their database makes me feel nervous.
‘And we also need your fingerprints and a DNA swab, plus your clothes, all for elimination purposes. We’re based out of Aylesbury, and I don’t want to have to drag you over there. Perhaps I could drop you back home and we can do all the necessaries there?’
I imagine walking through the door with a policeman. The shock and fear that would emanate from Matt. But I don’t feel like I’ve got a choice, and I am desperate to get home. ‘Okay, but could I just call my husband? Warn him that you’re coming?’ I wonder if that makes us sound guilty, like Matt needs prior notice because we have something to hide. But DI Finnemore just nods.
‘Of course, absolutely you should.’
‘Use my phone,’ Annie says, thrusting it towards me. I take it out of her hand, tap in Matt’s number, and wait for him to pick up.
AFTER
Saturday 4th May
Rachel
I close my bedroom door and lean against it. I feel bad leaving Matt alone with DI Finnemore – for both their sakes – but I needed a moment to breathe without police scrutiny. I only earned this reprieve because the detective asked me to bag up my clothes, so I force myself to push away from the door, then peel off my leggings and running top. I fold them into a square pile – perhaps my way of apologising to Matt – and slide them into the evidence bag. I add my socks and hairband and fasten it closed.
My trail runners are already sealed away – DI Finnemore taking them off me as soon as we got to his car – and the detective has also taken my fingerprints and a DNA sample, as well as getting me to e-sign my statement. Going through the different tasks with Matt silently watching on was excruciating, his expression never veering from wary. But I couldn’t risk engaging with him, giving him more than a few bare words, in case the whole truth of my discovery spilled out. I’m only grateful that the girls haven’t surfaced yet.
I pull on some fleece joggers and grab a hoodie from the top shelf of my wardrobe. I’m desperate for a shower, to wash off the horror of finding the body, but that will have to wait. I steel myself for a few more minutes of tension and head back downstairs. Both men are wearing relieved expressions when I reappear, and I try not to wonder how they’ve been passing the time. I proffer the bag.
‘Thank you,’ DI Finnemore says. ‘These will go to the lab, but you should get them back eventually, might be a few weeks.’
‘No problem.’ I know I’ll never wear those clothes again, that they’ll go in the bin, too contaminated even for the charity shop. But I don’t need to explain that to him.
‘Well, that’s everything for now, so I’ll leave you in peace. But remember you’re a victim of this crime too. I’ll get a family liaison officer to email you, and you can contact them if you ever need any support.’ He hesitates for a moment, as though wondering if he should end our conversation with something more heartfelt, but then gives me a small nod and turns towards the door.
Matt and I stand at the window and watch the detective’s car reverse out of the drive. I’m free to talk now, but my mouth is too dry for words to form. Images of bruised skin and tangled hair keep flashing in my mind. Matt must sense my discomfort – I suppose thirty years together can do that – because he brushes the small of my back and then takes a step away. ‘Why don’t you go for a shower,’ he says. ‘And I’ll make us breakfast, banana pancakes maybe, something sweet for the shock. And we can talk then,’ he adds more gently.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. As I watch him retreat into the kitchen, adjusting the doormat with his foot as he walks past, I think again that it was a good decision to work at our marriage when it became difficult. Because look where we are now. Solid.
I push away from the window and head for the stairs.
‘Amber Walsh?’ Matt asks incredulously, dropping his cutlery with a clatter. ‘Are you sure? How did you even recognise her?’
